Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (15 page)

‘Sorry, bloody machine again. Are you still in meetings? Ring me when you get this. I sort of have an idea about how I can make this up to you. Love you, mean it.'
Beep
.

‘OK, OK, it's midday now and you still haven't returned my calls, which means you're either in a major snot with me or you're still trying to figure out a way of making your show more popular than
Nip/Tuck
… I hate to sound needy or anything, but call me, call me, call me!'
Beep
.

‘Hmm, twelve-twenty-two. Now I'm worried that Good Grief O'Keefe has found out she might be for the chop and has sprinkled anthrax in your coffee. If I don't hear from you soon, honey, I'm calling all the hospitals within a twelve-mile radius …'
Beep
.

‘Oh God, now I've got visions of you in some emergency room with that cute doctor from
ER
giving you CPR and saying, “No! This can't be happening!
This woman is too young and beautiful to die!” And then that awful hospital administrator with the red hair and the walking stick that they all hate says, “Sure, tough break. Wouldn't you think her best friends would be here?” '
Beep
.

‘Right. Here's the deal. I've made an executive decision on your behalf. While you have actively NOT been returning my calls, I've had a lightning bolt of inspiration. I have a cunning plan which cannot fail. Now, pay attention, Bond. I'm going to call Pete Mooney and I'll tell him that he may just be hearing from you and not to be surprised if he does; it's because you're doing research for a new character that's coming into your show who by day is a mild-mannered accountant but by night plays in a 1980s nostalgia band. Brilliant, eh? He'll never suspect a thing. Pete was always thick as a plank. Don't bother thanking me, it's the least I can do. If you're not in an intensive-care unit, call me straight back. Love you up to the sky!'
Beep
.

‘OK, you'd better be sitting down for this one. I rang Pete. Now, you're not to get annoyed with me, promise? The good news is that he actually sounded so humongously pleased to hear from me, you'd have sworn I was Graham Norton calling. We chatted for ages, got on like a house on fire; you'd never have thought there was a cross word spoken between us. So then your name came up and I was saying wouldn't it
be great if we had an Emergency Exit reunion for old times' sake and that you'd have to come along too, seeing as how you were our number-one groupie—'
Beep
.

‘So here's the
fabulous
news! Are you sitting comfortably? You'll just never guess what, so don't even try. As luck or serendipity or fate would have it, Pete's at a wedding this weekend
IN DUBLIN
! I nearly had to have a lie-down when he told me. So, the wedding is on Saturday and I said why not meet up for a drink if he had any free time over the weekend. Then, totally unprompted, he says he's planning to come to Dublin next Friday evening and how about we meet up then? So are you thrilled? Aren't I just your golden boy? And more importantly, am I back in your good books again?'
Beep
.

‘My final message. Promise. I may have exaggerated the
teeniest
little bit about what I was doing now … and … well … I might just need your help.'

 

Between one thing and another, the rest of the week flies by. Meetings, more meetings, scripting sessions that go on till all hours, bickering with actors' agents … you name it, I dealt with it. I must have clocked up an eighty-hour week and, for once, it doesn't bother me.

As I say, nothing like hard work to take your mind off things.

And still no sign of
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
and the pre-teen fiancée moving in.

It's not that I've been checking every day or anything, but I do have to drive by their new house with the ‘Sold' sign nailed to the ground in front of it, taunting me, every time I go outside the bloody door.

But somehow, I've made it through the week and now it's Friday and I can't believe it. It's the weekend and I'm going out for the night, like normal people do. Well, except that, in my case, it's to meet up with an ex-boyfriend I haven't seen in nineteen years …

Did you ever find yourself in a situation so surreal that all you can do is wonder how the hell you ever got there in the first place? It's the only way I can describe how I feel as I find myself sharing a taxi with Jamie on our way into town. In all honesty though, I have to admit that it's actually really nice to have the bit of moral support. I'm feeling absolutely none of the awful anxiety attacks I went through before I met up with stinky old Greg Taylor. This time, I've brought an ally.

The taxi picks me up first, then we head for Jamie's flat and get there punctually on the dot of eight, but, as usual, he's not ready. He never is. After a twenty-minute wait, punctuated with Jamie sticking his head out of his bathroom window every moment he gets and shouting down at the taxi, ‘Nearly there! I promise, sweetie! Bit of a hair gel emergency!' eventually he plonks down into the passenger seat beside me.

‘Pooh! What is that aftershave?' I ask. I have to roll the window down, the smell is so overwhelming.

‘It's my lucky blend, darling. I invented it myself. It's a subtle mixture of Route du Thé from Barneys in New York—'

‘And what? Harpic toilet bleach?'

‘Smell is a critical part of chemical attraction, you know. Don't you like it?'

I can't even answer, I'm too busy spluttering.

‘Well, it is Friday night. And we are meeting in my favourite haunt, the Dragon bar on George's Street.'

‘
Jamie!
You arranged to meet Pete in a gay bar?'

‘Oh, put your claws in, Ena Sharples. I didn't suggest it, he did.'

‘But he doesn't even live in Dublin. How is he supposed to know it's a gay bar?'

‘Relax. It's one of the most famous pubs in town; it's practically a landmark, that's the only reason he knows it. Besides, the front part of it is mixed, so you'll be fine. So do you want to know the good news, oh single one?'

‘After the week I've had, all good news is gratefully received.'

‘Now don't get over-excited, but I think Pete could be single too. I was on the phone to him for ages and he never once mentioned a wife or dependent kids. Nor did he even mention the dreaded GF word.'

‘GF?'

‘Girlfriend, idiot.'

‘Jamie, it doesn't matter if he's a practising Mormon with seven wives. This is not a date. This is about as far from a date as you can get. I'm not meeting him because I want to get back with him; the only reason I'm here is to try to learn from the mistakes of my past.'

‘You didn't make any mistakes with Pete. He was a total arsehole back then. The only honourable course of action open to you was to drop him off in dumpsville.'

‘Well, as Ira Vandergelder says, I'm clearly doing something wrong.'

‘Explain.'

‘OK. Let me put it to you like this. Suppose I go on one job interview and I don't get the gig.'

‘I can certainly relate to that.'

‘Well then, it's fair to assume that I just wasn't what they were looking for. But supposing I spend the best twenty years of my life doing interviews and at the end of all that, I
still
don't have a job to show for it. Then guess what? Chances are
I'm
the problem. Same with dating.'

‘Oh, sweetie, you and I both have that in common. It's time to shut the revolving door of losers and hold out for something better.'

‘You're dead right,' I say, squeezing his arm. ‘It's like that Samuel Beckett line about the harder you try, the better you fail.'

‘And for the record? I totally understand this burning
need to have to be married. At least it'll save you having to go out on any more crap dates.'

We're just outside the Dragon bar by now and the taxi pulls over. I fish about in my handbag for the money to pay the driver and Jamie hops out.

‘Thanks for paying, darling,' he coos. ‘You know me, I'm like the Queen. I don't carry cash.'

The taxi speeds off and I take a deep, calming breath.

‘Oh, come on, honey,' says Jamie, linking my arm, ‘just think. After tonight, three down and only seven to go.'

The Dragon is truly awful: crowded, noisy and full of Friday-night poseurs. We battle our way to the bar, order drinks and look around for anyone who even closely resembles Pete: i.e., tall, thin, beanpole, weedy types. Kind of like John Cleese, except in his late thirties.

‘OK, when he gets here,' Jamie shouts in my ear (he has to, the noise is deafening), ‘you're to ask me if I've decided whether or not to do the Spielberg movie.'

‘Jamie, what exactly have you been telling him?'

‘I didn't lie. Well, not exactly. I just tweaked the truth a bit. Oh, and if my mobile phone rings, you're to say, “Don't tell me that's your LA agent ringing you
again
. Doesn't he understand that this is your down-time?” '

‘I'll never remember.'

‘Yes you will. And if I mention Colin, you're to tell
Pete I'm talking about Colin Farrell. Likewise, Marty is Martin Scorsese and Bobby is Robert de Niro. OK?'

Pete is very late. So late that I've almost decided to abandon the plan and bolt for the safety of home. Some of the looks I'm getting are starting to make me feel a bit self-conscious. Plus, I'm the only woman here. At least, I think I'm the only woman here. Some of the blokes have such fabulous bone structure, you wouldn't be too sure … Anyway. We've been here for over a half an hour now, and still no sign.
Bugger it. I've had enough drama for one week, haven't I?

‘How pissed off with me would you be if I left you here and ran away?' I eventually pluck up the courage to ask Jamie.

‘On a scale of one to ten, stratospheric. What's wrong, honey?'

‘Number one, I'm the only person here carrying a handbag and number two, some of these guys obviously have far better skincare regimes than I do. I'm about as conspicuous here as you would be at a speed-dating night in Jury's Inn.'

‘One more drink, that's all I ask. Then at least you'll have given it a try and can retreat with honour.'

I'm just about to call up another order, when an eerily familiar voice shouts over the noise at Jamie.

‘Well, well, well, Dr Livingstone, I presume?'

It's him. It's Pete. For definite. And the weird thing
is that he's hardly changed a bit. Still skeletally thin, still hollow-cheeked, still with the ghostly pallor of the night-dweller; the only notable difference is that his clothes have dramatically improved. We all hug and air-kiss and greet each other and I try my best to act casual and relaxed as if I frequent gay bars every night of the week.

He and Jamie have hit it off good-oh and are chatting away like they're best buddies.

‘I was so pleased you called,' Pete says to him. ‘You won't believe this but I often used to think about you with such a
shamingly
guilty conscience. I can't believe I ever said that your talents were end-of-pier.'

‘All in the past, let it go.'

‘And you're an actor now? Would I have seen you in anything?'

Jamie is very well-prepared for this one. Boy, has he done his homework. ‘I do a lot of art-house movies mostly. Limited release stuff, you know. I'm very reluctant to sell out my art and do more commercial films, you know, the way Colin has.'

‘Oh … ehh … that's Colin Farrell he means,' I dutifully chip in, making a mental note to slag the hell out of Jamie later for actually using the phrase, ‘my art'.

‘It's an ongoing battle between me and my LA representation,' he rattles on, beaming. ‘They're always pushing me to do big blockbuster movies, whereas I've always felt my first love was the theatre. So I'm reading
a lot of scripts at the moment, just biding my time, waiting for the right part to come along.'

Pete is suitably impressed by all this shite and the two of them chat on.

And by the two of them, I really do mean the two of them.

We order another round of drinks and half an hour later, well, I'm starting to feel very much like a third wheel. After another few minutes of Jamie giving the best performance I've seen him do in a long, long time, eventually he excuses himself to go to the loo.

‘Back in a mo,' he says cheerily, tossing his mobile phone at me. I only think he's gone a bit too far when he says, ‘If Brad or Angelina call, just take a message, will you? Tell them I'll get my people to call their people and we'll all meet up really soon, stateside.'

There's an awkward pause as both Pete and I sip on our drinks and I frantically rack my brains wondering how I can bring up the big subject.

Eventually, a tactic strikes me. ‘So, Pete,' I begin, hoping Jamie will be gone for ages, which he normally is. I never know what he does in there, but he takes far longer than any girl in the loo. ‘Can you believe it's been
nineteen
years? You've hardly changed a bit, you know, I'd have recognized you anywhere.'

‘Well, thanks,' says Pete, delighted. ‘It's so great to catch up with both of you again, after all this time. And isn't it wonderful how well Jamie is doing in his career?
But then he did always have a big gaping hole in his character which could only be filled by applause, didn't he?'

What am I supposed to say to that? Half of it sounded like a compliment and the other half sounded like an insult …

‘So, are you single at the moment?' Pete asks me, apropos of nothing.

OK, this is good, this is great. Now I'm back on track
. I'm actually delighted he's asked, as this gives me a much-needed chink of opportunity to talk about when he and I used to date. Pete, however, doesn't even give me a chance to draw breath.